Dylan Jones has Prescott syndrome: it's big but not clever

By DYLAN JONES

Last updated at 16:11 29 February 2008

You know things are bad when you catch yourself emulating John Prescott, legendary bruiser and a master of talking absolute tosh...

Now I may not be innately grumpy, I may not look like Jabba the Hutt reincarnated as a Northern stand-up comedian and I may not have the dress sense of a carrier bag (at least not during the week), but in spite of all this, I fear I may be turning into John Prescott.

Yes, I realise I've never got into a fracas at the Brit Awards or on the stump, and I understand that I don't have sausage meat for fingers or a damp black tea towel instead of hair, but I am beginning to emulate the former Deputy Prime Minister's oratorial skills.

The Lord forgive me.

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Dylan Jones says John Prescott is 'a master of talking absolute tosh'

Like a lot of people, I always quite enjoyed Prescott, and whenever he was on the radio or television I always liked the way he came across as a cartoon trade unionist, a man who wasn't going to let broadcasting niceties get in the way of a good – albeit useless – yarn, and whose answers (long, convoluted, nonsensical) often bore no relation to his inquisitors' questions.

When Prescott had something to get off his chest, get it off his chest he did.

Phlegmatic, you could call him.

Catarrhal, even.

Accusing John Prescott of lacking social skills was like accusing the Fiat Panda of being a motorised shopping trolley.

We already knew that, but that was part of the appeal. Idiot.

I once walked behind him as he crossed a busy street in London's Victoria, leaving the premiere of Elton John's Billy Elliot on his way to the after-show party.

I started to wonder why he had no security, when it occurred to me that it would actually be difficult to find bodyguards or bouncers bigger than Prezza.

And, anyway, who in his right mind would have a proper pop at a chap who looks as if he could easily square up to a bendy bus? (You only have to click on to YouTube and see the way he handled himself when a protester threw an egg at him to know that.)

I also remember seeing him at Number 10 once, loitering by the front door at a party thrown by Gordon Brown, and he looked like the sort of bloke who wouldn't let you in even if your name was on the guest list.

"Don't care who you are, pal – it's not New Romantic night, you know…"

Which, I guess, is why we quite liked him.

We found him preposterous, but at least he didn't have airs and graces.

In addition to that, he looked as though he found New Labour as ridiculous as the rest of us did.

He even went up in our estimations when we found out he'd been sticking his chubby fingers in the sweet jar (even though the rather odd-looking sweet he chose was well past its sell-by date and appeared to have been sucked a few times before being put back on the shelf).

The other reason why Prescott was so popular was his idiosyncratic way with words.

His mangled syntax and grammar became so famous that one columnist once observed, "Every time Prescott opens his mouth, it's like someone has flipped open his head and stuck in an egg whisk." Or a hand grenade.

And while they won't admit it, before being accepted as transcribers to Hansard, applicants apparently must listen to one of Prescott's speeches and write down what they think he was trying to say.

JP was never known for his slingshot repartee, and his double-breasted, single-barrelled manner was exposed in former British ambassador to the US Sir Christopher Meyer's book DC Confidential, in which the big man displays a Teletubby-esque grasp of international political matters.

Whenever Prescott visited the White House with Blair, he regularly insisted on seeing Vice President Dick Cheney, although, according to Meyer, he not only had nothing sensible to say to him, but also seemed oblivious to what was actually going on in the world.

While Meyer's book dismissed several cabinet ministers as "political pygmies", he aimed his most scathing attack at Prescott, whom he described as arriving "at the embassy like a mastiff with his hackles up".

Meyer said that Prescott "never appeared to be sufficiently up on these [foreign policy] issues and he always seemed nervous".

In a meeting with a senator, Meyer was horrified to see Prescott getting "into a terrible tangle… [talking] about war in the “Balklands” and “Kovosa”. The senator, who knew something about military matters, was surprised to hear from the Deputy Prime Minister that British Harriers were bombing from 15ft." Or sometimes even lower.

Now I have this fear that I've begun to do exactly the same thing.

On three occasions recently I have had one of those out-of-body experiences where you're in the middle of saying something and then suddenly it's as if you're sitting opposite yourself, and you realise that you're not wearing any trousers and talking the most ridiculous tosh.

Of course, sometimes this doesn't matter – usually because the people listening to you are either too stupid or too polite (or, in a perfect world, both) to contradict you – but occasionally you find yourself with someone whose body language and slow, quiet frown tells you that your interpretation of the latest cabinet reshuffle doesn't chime with their own. Or indeed anyone else's.

The trick, I find, is to carry on regardless – exactly as Prescott would – and then change the subject as quickly as possible.